Moth-Eaten Sweaters and Sporadic Overtures
by Watanabe Maya
Summary: "Matthew had fallen in love with him then, thrice even, but never at the right time." \\ human AU. lonely EngCan with tidbits of other pairings.
1. The Beginning's the End is the Beginning

Hello again, everyone! Here is yet another attempt of mine to write a multi-chapter fic, lol. I've been reading a bunch of fics throughout summer, and I was greatly struck by General Relativity (on lj) and The Selfish Sickness (here on ff) -_ohmygod guys they were so beautiful you should check them out you won't regret it holycrap -_ that I was inspired to write another story centered on Canada. It's an AU, and makes use of their human names; there is roughly a 3-year age gap between Canada and his brother, America - who is the same in age as England. Initially, I had planned for this to be a oneshot, but well, a lot of relationships start, stop, fade, and intertwine in here so it probably would've been a very loooooong one then hahaha (But even now I'm not entirely sure of how things would work out, I've got a whirlwind of a plot running through my mind and I'm still at a loss at how to follow through with everything hahaha).

Many thanks to the wonderful Whaddapack, my super loyal as fuck guy best friend who tolerated the brewing slash just to help serve as my beta :D HI DUDE IF YOU EVER SEE THIS PLEASE KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU (...as a bro ok) HAHAHAHA. MY GRATITUDE HAS BUT NO BOUNDS.

On a side note, omg guys has anyone here watched About Time? Domhnall Gleeson plays the lead role of Tim Lake and he kinda reminds me of Arthur Kirkland there with his lanky limbs and semi-thick brows and British accent asjkdbglaisfhwq AHAHAHA I absolutely adored it. It's kinda sad but it's also kinda sweet and I liked the musical score quite a bit. :D

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. All rights belong to Hima-papa.

* * *

The first time Matthew Williams falls in love, it is with a boy a tad bit older than his age, with thick brows and golden hair and eyes the colour of kelp. He is his brother's playmate (well, step-brother's, if one were to question the difference in their surnames, as his mother decided it would be better for Matthew not to change his family name in honour of his deceased father) and has always been distant and reserved, quite the opposite of Alfred's loud and boisterous nature.

He meets him a month after moving in to the Jones' residence.

Matthew, having taken after his father's weak constitution, is in bed with what seems to be the flu, his raging fever dancing dangerously between the degrees of thirty-eight and thirty-nine. The room is spinning fast around him, enough to tempt him to grab hold of the 'sick bowl' lying on his night table, but that would mean letting go of Kuma—_chiro? Kumakichi? He's too sick to remember properly – _and he doesn't want to spend even a single moment without his only friend by his side. Instead, he focuses his eyes languidly on some indefinite point on the ceiling, clutching onto the white bear tightly in his arms, like an anchor against the stormy sea, waves of nausea washing over him as his consciousness faded and returned, vision blurring in and out and in and out and in and out and in and –

_"Alfred!"_ he hears someone call out as the door bursts open, the sudden noise startling the ailing child from his whirling thoughts. A child enters the room and hurriedly hastens towards his bed, crouching down low to peek underneath the frame. "_Are you in here—_oh."Wide emeralds meet confused amethysts, the owner of the voice as equally surprised as the owner of the room.

"I'm sorry! I did not know that someone was occupying this—"

"No, uhm, it's all right… " Matthew offers a faint smile. People usually forgot about him anyway, it didn't really matter that much. He had gotten used to it by now.

"You must be Alfred's new brother," the stranger interrupts him then, "M-Ma…Max…er, Mark…no, uhm…Matthew, right?"

"Who?" the Canadian inquires, his weary eight-year-old mind too tired to process the hasty jumble of the older boy's previous words.

"You are _Matthew_, aren't you?" he repeats, more smoothly this time.

And Matthew blinks, surprised that someone else had actually been aware of his existence beforehand. It's a nice feeling, though, to be genuinely noticed for once. There's a hint of a blush creeping up his skin, but neither of them notice due to the pre-existent tinge of the Matthew's fever-flushed cheeks.

He opens his mouth to affirm the stranger, but a cough escapes his lips and rattles his weakened frame. Matthew's answer is only reduced to a simple nod.

"You must feel terrible," the boy remarks. "That cough sounds horrid."

"Sorry," Matthew manages to croak out, forcing the words amidst the soreness of his throat.

"No need to apologize." A thin hand snakes itself up his forehead, smoothing out the wisps of his bangs before falling to his neck and then up again to rest on his cheek. Matthew feels his temperature skyrocket at his touch. "You should probably get some rest, then. And, um, your brother is probably still waiting to be found – we were playing hide-and-seek, you see – so I should probably leave now. I'm sorry for the intrusion."

Matthew offers him a tiny wave as he makes his way towards the exit.

"It was nice meeting you, Matthew," he hears him say last before the door clicks to a close.

The fluttering in his stomach is a pleasant one this time, the nausea he had suffered from moments earlier miraculously vanishing as a smile tugs on the corners of his lips. Matthew is drowsy now, so he settles himself by sinking back down in his sheets and tucking the polar bear at his side.

He never quite catches the boy's name, but he contents himself with the fact that it is nothing more than a simple, innocent crush. Nevertheless, the memory of their meeting is enough to cure the child of his ails that night.

Sometimes, Matthew wonders, if perhaps, maybe, meeting _him _had only just been a dream.

Most other times, however, he reminds himself that it isn't.

* * *

keeping things happy and fluffy while i still can hehe :3

**please do leave a review, they make my day and i super love them just as i love you guys.** not to worry, I'll be updating this one soon hehe :D


	2. Lost Scene

Sorry for the wait, I started having review classes for the summer and oh god they sure are boring. You'd think that at least having a friend _(and your crush/special guy whatever HAHAHA_) together with you would help make things better but nope, those classes still suck. I'm starting to hate them now, actually. Not 'cause of the lectures, but more so because of the monotony and boring nature of how we have to spend our breaks. Ugh._ ((And on an even more bitter note, jealousy, the green-eyed monster, is a terrible terrible thing. God, I hate myself sometimes.))_

My beta suggested to do something like this, but he didn't get to proofread and beta this particular chapter.

Well anyway, here's hoping things work out better in the long run. Happy reading and please do leave a review. I'm not lying when I tell you that they really do make my day. :)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

Matthew never really understood the concept of opposite gender roles.

Well, sure, he gets it in the biological sense – they've had science classes and he learned about anatomy and hormones and all that – but the young boy never really saw the importance of it besides helping people pick out their outfits or how to style their hair. Having gender determine whether it would be socially acceptable for him to like someone or not would be far too difficult and complex for his poor ten-year-old brain to even fathom or simply imagine.

He simply takes people as they are, the choice of liking them based solely on their personality and the entirety of their being. It's simply the right way, he thinks. Just. Impartial. Fair.

Which is why he finds it strange – and horrifyingly upsetting – that when he received a tulip of affection from his seatmate Ned, two days before Valentine's, the whole class had laughed and ridiculed them with barbs of "_faggot!", "gay!", "disgusting!", and "homo!". _

Matthew smiles but turns him down, hoping to quell the rumors and gossip blathered by his peers.

They stop talking to each other after that.

(It's a shame, really. He liked Ned. He was a nice-enough guy.)

The bullying stops after a while.

A month after the incident, when the students have reached a ceasefire to their insulting remarks, a classmate approaches him sometime between second and third period and asks for his time. It's a girl with a round face and even rounder eyes, her hair long and styled in a plaited up-do. Her name is Katyusha, and she is an exchange student from Ukraine.

She tells him that she has a crush on him, and may possibly even be in love with him, then asks if he could go out with her. Matthew doesn't exactly reciprocate her feelings in same way, but he's too nice to bring himself to refuse her offer. He leads her up the garden path – not intentionally, of course – and contributes to the cultivation of her emotions. She starts eating lunch together with him on that day, and the day after that, and the day after that. They sit together on the cafeteria bench at the far end of the hall, sometimes across, sometimes beside each other.

There was a time, Matthew remembers, when she'd been bold enough to grab hold of his hand as it rested on the bench surface, intertwining their fingers as their hands hung low between their laps, the action subtle and discreet and hidden by the berm of the table. It was like a secret, a guilty pleasure she indulged in on her very own; the dash of pink that dusted her cheeks as she averted her eyes had been her only giveaway.

But for Matthew, this means something else entirely. Instead, his mind is left to wander and he compares the feelings of his past with their present: the smallness of her palm and the thickness of her fingers so different from the hand that felt his forehead many years ago; but the warmth of her skin, edged with nervous trepidation, is similar to the one of the boy's, though he notices that her touch was more calloused and had not been as gentle.

A week later, she is sporting a new haircut, her now-short blonde hair fashioned with hairclips and bedizened with a thick solitary band. She turns to face him during lunch again, asking him for his opinion on her appearance.

But Matthew can only look back and think of an unruly mop of hair, blonde still but more vibrant in shade; and as her bright teal eyes gaze deeper into his while awaiting for his answer, he finds himself instead, desperately seeking the most peculiar shade of jade-and-moss green.

And_ oh god, _Matthew thinks,_ it just isn't fair._

_It isn't fair to her._

He shouldn't be doing this, Matthew realizes then. Katyusha is a nice girl, and she deserved an even nicer guy who would repay her affections with sincerity and genuine emotion. So the Canadian simply tells her that it's fine, and waits another week before he asks her as nicely, as carefully, and as cautiously as he can, that they resume to being just-friends once again. He says sorry for everything, too.

She says that it's okay, and that she'd like to remain as friends with him as well. Young as they are, though wise beyond their years, both of them know better than to place hope in a false dawn. You can never really go back to being just-friends with someone you've been "together" with at the end of an affair. Things never work out the way you want them to be in life.

So they simply smile at each other, expressions awkward and weary, agreeing upon false civilities and contenting themselves with the politeness of their façade.

(Dealing with her brother, however, had been an entirely different story. Ivan was younger than him, sure, but that did not stop him from exuding an aura of complete and utter terror, towering over Matthew a good eight inches and subjecting him to his hardened gaze, complete with a cold smile and even colder eyes.)

Many would consider that this would be Matthew's first – and quickest, after lasting not even a month but a mere three weeks – relationship ever, but the boy would strongly detest this notion and say otherwise.

He liked her, yes, but he didn't _love_ her.

So that time, for Matthew, doesn't really count.

* * *

Canada has great political relations with Ukraine, and Netherlands really does have a tradition of giving Canada flowers. In 1945, the Dutch royal family sent 10,000 tulip bulbs to Ottawa in gratitude for Canadians having sheltered Princess Juliana and her daughters for the preceding three years during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands, in the Second World War. In 1946, Juliana sent another 20,500 bulbs requesting that a display be created for the hospital, and promised to send 10,000 more bulbs each year. :D [src: wiki]

The next installation/chapter is probably gonna be really long so the wait for that will most likely be even longer. Just one more week of review classes and then I'll be resuming my break so just hold out a little longer please and I'll work hard to update this soon. I have another story coming up as well, which, hopefully, I can upload within the week. :D

R&amp;R please and thank you!


	3. Lull and Storm

**here's a long chapter to make up for my absence. sorry for the wait!**

**Disclaimer:** i don't own hetalia.

* * *

The second time Matthew falls in love, he is twelve; on the cusp of entering his teenage years.

It happens in the summer, early into June, three weeks before his birthday. The boys are hosting a sleepover, the parents allowing the best friends of both children to stay for the night. Each son, as per their rules, would be allowed to invite one guest to receive the privilege of being invited into their home.

Alfred, naturally, begs their parents to allow him to invite three of his friends instead of just one. Marianne scoffs and Franklin sighs, but both of them concede to his whims in the end, anyway. Grandpa George chuckles, commenting something about Alfred's sprightly nature and the millstones of parenting, before he resumes to reading another one of his civil war books, contented with his smoking pipe and rocking chair.

Matthew has decided to pick Gilbert – a German boy who claims that he is instead, Prussian, with his albino features, white skin, and crimson red eyes. Alfred asks him if he would like to invite anyone else, just to be fair, and Matthew thinks about the boy who visited his bedside before, wants to ask Alfred if he's willing to tell Matthew the boy's name, if they're still close friends, and if he's planning to invite him to their house as well. But the Canadian shakes his head politely, not wanting to push his luck, and contents himself with crossing his fingers for the last wish that he pondered over in his mind.

When the night of the sleepover finally falls upon them, Matthew's wish is granted, but by some cruel twist of fate, not in the way he expects it to be.

The guests arrive just in time for dinner. The first is a Japanese boy named Kiku, who knocks politely on the door even after ringing the bell and bows immediately at the sight of Alfred's parents. He thanks them for their kindness as they usher him inside – Alfred is still taking a shower, so he can't exactly attend to the guests at the moment – and even offers Matthew a bow as the Canadian boy peeks over the edge of his novel. Matthew nods politely and decides to head to the kitchen and help his mother set the table.

The second guest is a French one named Francis. He has blonde hair and violet eyes, and Matthew wonders if one day, he'll look like him too when he grows older. Francis enters in a rather grand manner, greeting Franklin with a quick but smooth "_Bonjour, Monsieur Jones!" _as he dropped his duffel bag by the doorway before sauntering over to the kitchen counter – just barely missing Matthew, had the Canadian not backed away– to kiss the hand of Marianne with a gentlemanly flourish. "And it is _ah… _a pleasure to see you, _Madame." _

Marianne giggles, pleasantly surprised, before Alfred decides to enter the room right at this very moment. Hair dripping, still uncombed with his cowlick sticking up, towel wrung round his neck – fresh out of the shower.

"Ew, Francis," the American remarks. "Quit bein' gross and get your hands off my mom. Not cool."

"_Non!" _his friend retorts, answering back. "I was not being gross."

"Nu-uh!" Alfred points an accusatory finger at his friend. "You were _so _hitting on my mom, dude. That's totally gross."

"_N'importe quoi_," Marianne speaks up. "Your friend Francis did not hit me," the French woman tries to explain to the teen, not quite seeing the difference between being hit and being hit _on, _as she had not been well versed in American slang. "He only came to greet me. I am sure he was only being polite."

"Ugh. Fine," Alfred acquiesces, not bothering to explain the meanings of the two terms to his mother. He turns to his friend, sticking his tongue out at the Frenchman. "Not cool, Frannie."

Francis smirks at his defense.

"Let's just go," he ushers his friend out of the kitchen. "Call us when dinner's ready."

"Just give it ten more minutes," his mother replies. "You can wait in the living room with your friends."

"Nah. We'll just go upstairs and hang out in my room. See ya, Mattie!" Alfred hollers with an off-handed wave.

"Okay," Matthew waves back.

The doorbell rings soon afterwards, and Matthew takes it upon himself to open the door instead since his mother is preoccupied with adjusting the knobs on the oven. He is greeted with the sight of a boy in dark denim jeans, union jack-printed tee, studded belt, high-cut Converse shoes, every inch of his outfit screaming punk.

But what grabs hold of Matthew's attention are his bright emerald eyes, and of course, signature thick eyebrows.

"'Ello there."

Oh, and his accent is British, too.

The Canadian boy stares, unblinking, trapped in a daze of the memory of the boy from the past.

"Uhm." There is an awkward cough, and the Briton steadies the backpack slung on his shoulders, shoving his free hand into his pocket. "May I step inside?"

"Oh! Ah, yes of course! S-s-sorry!" Matthew jolts out of his stunned stupor, apologizing profusely and stepping aside to make way for the guest. "You must be here for Alfred. He's upstairs with everyone else…I mean, with Francis and Kiku, uhm, yeah…sorry, you are…?"

"Arthur!" Marianne answers for him as she calls out from the kitchen. "It's nice to see you again, dear. Come in! Come in!"

"Good evening, Mrs. Jones," the British boy smiles, offering a curt but polite nod towards both parents, "Mr Jones."

He turns to Matthew, the ghost of a smile still on his face. "And to you as well, Matthew."

And he feels it again, a fluttering in his stomach, very much warm and a slightly bit euphoric; then right on cue, the doorbell rings, and Matthew runs to the entrance hastily, looking away from Arthur in order to conceal his flustered expression.

"Hey," Gilbert says, flashing him a toothy grin. "Sorry I was late. The awesome me has finally arrived!"

Matthew greets him with one of his brightest smiles. Gilbert's timing couldn't have been any more perfect.

They have dinner after that. Matthew doesn't remember much else besides his mother's delicious _poutine _and the fact that Arthur had been sitting exactly two seats away from him on the dinner table. The evening passes by in a quick blur.

And even though everyone knows that you don't really sleep in a sleepover, just as how everyone knows that the sun is a star and not a planet, Gilbert, being Gilbert, manages to defy that very fact and promptly conks out on Matthew's bed as soon as the TV begins airing the credits of _Mystery, Alaska._ (It was either this or _Les Boys; _Gilbert couldn't be bothered to understand French for a single run of a two-hour movie, and Matthew didn't have much else in his humble collection of hockey-centred movies.)

Matthew takes it upon himself to clear out their mess of junk food wrappers and soda cans, draping a blanket over his friend and heading to the kitchen downstairs to grab a light drink – maybe some hot chocolate with a dash of maple syrup? – before going to bed. It's a quarter to one in the morning, the house is dimly lit in an eerie light, but Matthew steels himself to continue his mission.

Somewhere in the distance at the end of the hallway, Matthew can vaguely hear the sound of two voices, hushed, panting, and forcibly quiet.

"You suck at this, you bloody frog."

A breathy chuckle.

"You say that but you aren't showing any signs of letting me go, _mon lapin."_

"Oh do shut u—"

The words are cut off abruptly by what Matthew witnesses next, a passionate kiss shared in the midst of the locking of lips. Francis' back is facing Matthew, hunched over a smaller figure, while a mop of blonde hair peeks out from over the taller boy's shoulder. The two part ways to take a breath then, blonde lashes fluttering slightly as green eyes crack open, catching sight of the Canadian child almost immediately.

And Matthew simply stares on, eyes as wide as saucers, lips pursed in an attempt to keep quiet.

Arthur raises a finger to his lips then – _hush, child, it's our secret, you see –_ casting the boy a quick glance and an arched brow before returning his sly gaze to the Frenchman.

_Sorry, _Matthew manages to mouth back, before he bolts out the room faster than his legs can carry him, his lungs ready to collapse and his chest burning like on fire. He reaches his bedroom and slams the door shut, loud enough to wake Gilbert, sinking down to the ground as he breaks out in cold sweat.

"Woah, birdie! What happened to you? Did'ya see a ghost or something?"

Matthew breathes and sucks the air back into his lungs, shaking his head before turning to his friend. There is a quiver in his lips, a knot in his stomach, and a tightness in his chest, but he knows none of these are from the running he did seconds before.

"What's the matter?" Gilbert says, his tone hushed and laden with concern.

But the tears spill out faster than Matthew can say anything else, so Gilbert picks him up, drags him to bed, and lets the Canadian cry his heart out for a good solid forty minutes.

Needless to say, the memory of this love had not been so sweet.

* * *

Please do leave a review! Thanks :)


	4. The Speed of Dark

'ello everyone :) sorry 'bout not having been able to write much this month because of some personal/relationship(-ish?) issues. Just wanna say thank you again to all the people who bothered to message me with words of comfort and all (and uh, as for a shameless update: i've made semi-progress and things are slowly improving with regards to that issue so yeah, i'm in a better mood now than before :) ) :D Here's a new chapter, please do r&amp;r! :)

Disclaimer: Hetalia doesn't belong to me.

* * *

It's kind of a funny story, really, the way they meet again – five years later underneath the August sky.

"Hey, Matt, where do you want me to put these?" Alfred gestures to the boxes on the floor, stacked on top of one another; labels of clothes and books and other essentials scrawled in permanent marker on the cardboard surface.

"Just leave them there. I'll unpack later," Matthew mutters an offhanded order of instruction, shrugging a jacket onto his shoulders. The maple leaf is wrinkled, its print fading fast on the well-loved, well-worn cloth. "I want to see the roof for a bit."

"Sure thing, little bro," Alfred grins. "The view's great there, by the way. Wanna borrow my telescope while you're at it?"

"Nah, I'm good," Matthew shakes his head as he makes his way to the door, turning the knob with a soft click. "But thanks, Al."

-x-

It's half-past nine in the evening, the waning summer winds leaving behind a slight chill in the air. He sits on the rooftop, feet just dangling off the edge, relishing in the subtle calm of the late eventide. The gentle hum of streetcars and the lazy buzz of the nightlife calms him so. His mind is left to wander and he is trapped in his thoughts.

Matthew has always loved the evening sky, the vastness of it and the way it sparkled in the night, gilded with the moon and littered with the stars. The darkness is an enigma, the moon its sphinx, the sky like a blanket spread out over the universe, a shroud of a mystery just waiting to be unravelled.

And maybe that's the one thing those two brothers have in common, if not for their uncanny yet mutual need for eyeglasses and prescription lenses. It is of falling in love with the nature of their universe, a passion for the Milky Way, their willingness to learn bound by the breadth of a single galaxy.

But while Alfred's fascination has led him to follow his dreams of traveling amongst the stars, Matthew contents himself just to watch, happy enough to settle his gaze and admire them from afar.

He looks up to face the heavens, a lighter in his hands and a cigarette between his lips, the heat of the ashes warding off a shiver in his bones and the chatter in his teeth.

Flickering streetlights and bustling pedestrians; a quiet humdrum settles itself upon the city, interrupted only by the occasional honking of car horns, whirring motorcycles, and–

_"What the blazes are you doing?!" _

And Matthew looks down, overcome with surprise, at the clamour of an angry voice crying out from the streets below. He squints his eyes, adjusting his spectacles, vision skimming over slabs of concrete to find this vociferous stranger.

_"Don't you bloody dare jump! You still have so much more to live for!" _

"What?" he shouts back in reply, the Zippo falling from his grasp and aiming for the gutters. Matthew scrambles to his feet, scooting closer towards the precipice in an attempt to retrieve his lighter, but really now, that only just makes things look worse.

The man takes this the wrong way, naturally, and when Matthew peers over the ledge once again, he finds that the anonymous figure has relocated from his initial position, dashing off towards the dormitory building possibly in an attempt to 'save' him.

_"Step away from the ledge!"_ a voice calls out to him from behind right then, desperate and a little out of breath, confirming the Canadian of his suspicions.

Matthew returns empty-handed, the lighter void and absent from his palms; he backs down from the boundary, careful in his step, before he turns around halfway to address his saviour, expression sheepish as he attempts to explain himself.

"I'm sorry for the trouble, sir, " he begins to explain, "but I wasn't actually going to jump you know—" Matthew's words stop abruptly, time freezing over in a single moment. The city halts. His breath hitches.

"…Matthew?"

The voice calling out to him is the same as before, but this time it is familiar, and somewhat hesitant. Matthew fumbles with hair, trying to fix the windswept appearance of his fringe before deeming it futile. He swivels on his heel, turning yet another right angle in order to face the speaker.

"H-hi…Arthur."

"It's nice to see you again," Arthur smiles at him warmly, his tone now calm and his breathing more even. "What are you doing here?"

"Uhm," Matthew stalls, his voice a lump in his throat. Seconds pass and he swallows hard, urging himself to forge on. "I just moved in."

"Oh? So you've just moved in…" the Englishman repeats, almost in disbelief. "Since when?"

"Today, actually…" Matthew says in response, coupled with a light-hearted laugh, "I've been unpacking boxes since this afternoon."

"Really now? I could offer to help you, you know. Where are you staying?"

"No need, Arthur." Matthew shakes his head to reject the Briton's offer. "Al's already helping me out, so it's all right. I live here now, anyway."

"You must be a freshman then, am I right?" Arthur interrupts, expression dawning with enlightenment. "So I take it that you must be rooming together with your brother now, yes?"

The younger boy nods.

"How did you know?" Matthew asks him, fingers fumbling with the cigarette as he removes it from his mouth, not bothering to inhale the smoke in the presence of the other man. He takes a deep breath before resuming to his former position, tucking the cylinder back between his teeth as one hand rests folded against the elbow of his straightened arm. "How did you know I'm rooming with Al?"

"_Ah, _because you see…" Arthur shoves a hand into his trouser pocket, fingers probing the cavalry twill as he fishes out a chain of keys and holds it out to the Canadian. He answers him once more with the power of his words, voice accented and point-blank. "So am I."

"Oh," is all Matthew can say.

_Oh._

The cigarette falls from his lips. A plummeting bombshell.

_Tabarnak._

* * *

**hi thank you for reading, please do leave a review :)**

_*Tabarnak - acc. to urbandictionary: "_Used as swear word (common in french Canadian slang) 'Tabarnak' has a variety of uses. It has nearly become an equivalent to "fuck" and its derivatives in how it is used. It can be used as an insult (when adressing someone),or to overstate/amplify an emotion/state of mind, or to express surprise-disgust, etc.

Mon/le -tabarnak- (in keeping with the fuck reference: you/that -fucker-) ~insult~  
C'est beau en -tabarnak- (It's -fucking- pretty) ~to amplify, overstate~  
tabarnak! (fuck!) ~to express surprise in response to a comment, for example~"

_Word of warning, updates will be slower from now on; I'm gonna have to take a break and put my fanfic "career" on hiatus for a while since I'll be taking college entrance exams starting next month. please pray and wish me luck guys hahahuhu _


	5. There Are No Words

OHMYGOD I'M SO SORRY I VANISHED OFF OF THE FACE OF THE PLANET FOR A LONG TIME AND THAT I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN SO LONG. I'm not dead guys, but my brain definitely is, looool. I finally finished all my college entrance tests (prayers please so that I could pass huhu) I've certainly missed writing, and this is just something I did to try and get me back into the zone of it haha. I haven't done this in a while, and my skills are now moot. It's like here we are again, Maya, back to square one. I've actually been a bit reluctant to continue this, since I ran out of ideas for it and considered putting it on hiatus but I wanted to try again and finish what I've started. I honestly have no idea where this story is going now. I initially had an outline and plan for it at the start, but now it's like this story has gone in an entirely new direction all on its own haha i'm sorry. Hope this chapter isn't too shitty lol. Happy reading? :))

**Disclaimer: **I don't own hetalia.

* * *

"Earth to birdie!"

A hand waves itself in front of his face.

"Can you hear me?"

More waving.

_"Hallo?"_

Flick.

"Pardon?" Matthew says as he snaps out of his daze, now rubbing a small spot on his forehead to ward off the sting. "Uh…sorry, you were saying?"

"You've been spacing out for the past couple of minutes, Matt," Gilbert reasons with a sigh. "What's up with you today? Are ya sick or something?"

Matthew shakes his head. "It's…it's nothing."

"Care to share your woes with the awesome me, then?" Gilbert offers before stuffing a forkful of cafeteria spaghetti into his mouth. "I'd gladly be your agony aunt."

"Well, " he stares at his plate, twirling his food around while in pensive thought. "It's about Arthur…"

"Woah, Arthur? Do you mean Arthur as in...Eyebrows Kirkland?!"

"_Eyebrows_?" Matthew cocks his own up in confusion. "What the hell, Gil?"

"I'm serious! 'Cause, you know, they look like fuzzy black caterpillars residing on his forehead."

The Canadian stares at him, expression deadpan. "Not funny."

"You just lack a sense of humour, birdie." Gilbert stares back. "So anyway, what's up with him?"

"So I moved in with Alfred for Uni, right?"

"Yes, and…what's that got to do with Arthur?"

"I ran into him…sorta…while I was settling into the dorm and all." Matthew begins to explain. "Kiku just graduated and Arthur's roommate just left. I think it was to go to France for his internship or whatever. And Arthur can't handle paying the rent for their room on his own."

"So what's the problem?"

Matthew swallows hard. "He had the keys to Al's apartment, Gilbert."

"And so?" Gilbert retorts. "Aren't they, uh..well…best friends? It's natural for people to give a spare key to someone close whom they can trust. For emergencies and stuff."

"You don't understand, Gil!" Matthew says with a frustrated sigh, raising his hands up in the air in a melodramatic fashion.

"Yes, you're right, Matt. I don't understand. So quit being so freakin' cryptic and just tell me straight up what the problem is because you aren't making any sense right now, " the albino points an accusatory finger at his partner for emphasis, "birdie."

Matthew bites his lip and scoots closer to Gilbert, not wanting to be heard despite the noise of the cafeteria chatter. "He's going to be moving in with us, too, apparently."

-x-

The problem with Matthew is that he is a hopeless case when it comes to the matters of the heart.

He falls in love too quickly, too suddenly, and too hard. He gives himself away far too easily, having offered Arthur his heart – a noble sacrifice in the purest of forms – as the world only watches, wincing, knowingly aware that Matthew was only bound to get himself hurt in the end.

But what is man if not a martyr? Honest. Simple. A prey to his own affections.

-x-

The first night Arthur moves in, Matthew stumbles into the flat, drained from the demands of his schoolwork and from burning the midnight oil to study for his test the night before, only to find boxes and bags and what seems like a thousand books littered across the floor.

"Al?" Matthew calls out, albeit groggily, shedding off his coat and beanie on the rack. "I didn't think we'd be having visitors tonight-"

"Hullo, Matthew," a voice answers him back, accent warm and inviting. Matthew is greeted by the sight of the Englishman sitting on the floor; knees bent, scissors in hand, box in tow, attention transfixed on removing the tape from the cardboard cover. "Welcome home."

"Oh. Hi Arthur," the Canadian boy replies, his eyes a little wider now, and mind so much more awake. He didn't expect for the Briton to be joining them starting today. There's a tingling warmth slowly heating up his cheeks, and Matthew prays that the Briton doesn't notice.

But Arthur _does_ notice, although he shrugs it off thinking it must have been from the cold outdoors. He doesn't question Matthew to confirm his suspicions though, and the violet-eyed boy is eternally grateful to the gods for letting him off the hook with just that.

"Your brother is out at the moment, but I assure you he'll be back soon."

Matthew sets his backpack aside and plops down on the couch, a couple inches away from Arthur. He tilts his head, leaning back and letting his tired eyes flutter to a restful, momentary close. "Where'd he go?"

"Alfred went to the convenience store to grab some ice cream," the Briton explains with a scoff. "Figures."

"That's definitely Al for you. Ice cream's an appropriate snack at any time of the day for him. Even at nine in the evening."

"Truly, your brother's appetite and eating habits are unparalleled."

Despite himself, Matthew can't help but chuckle.

"You're a lit major, right? You sure have a lot of books," he says right then, settling for a new topic before a dead silence settles over them. "Is there anything I can do to help you out? I can carry them for you if you want."

"Yes, that would be a great help. Thank you."

"Where to?" Matthew asks. "Alfred's?"

The elder responds with a nod of his head.

Matthew rises from his seat, carrying with him three of Arthur's thickest fiction books, and a bag that stored his clothes. "You'll be rooming with my brother, right?" Matthew asks, slightly puzzled. "But he only has one bed."

"I can take the couch, or we could share." Arthur says with a shrug. "No worries."

"Oh," the younger answers, trying to mask his embarrassment. He knows that 'we' was directed at someone else, having been used to refer to his brother and not himself, but Matthew can't help but flush at the thought of sharing a bed with the older boy. He clears his throat and heads off to finish his assigned task. "Alright then."

"So, Matthew," the sound of his name rolling off the English boy's tongue echoes above the sound of tape ripping off of a cardboard surface. "How's your first year coming along?"

"Well, it's a bit tiring, but I'm doing fine, I guess?" Matthew unpacks another box of books and neatly stores them atop the shelf in his brother's room.

"Hmm?" Arthur finishes unloading the last box and hums in response, mildly amused. "How fine is fine? Have you found yourself a girlfriend, you lucky bloke?"

"Wh-wha?!" Matthew splutters and nearly trips over himself at the sudden onset of a question. Yes, leave it to his love interest to try and pry into his love life. His heart was never ready for this. "N-n-n-no, I haven't!"

The green-eyed boy laughs. "Now, no need to get so riled up, Matthew. I was only kidding. Come, let's have some tea. It's the least I could do to make it up to you, especially after you've helped me out."

The doorbell rings just then, and there is a knock on the door. "Artie?" Alfred hollers. "Is Matt back yet? Can someone open the door for me, please? I forgot my key."

Matthew promptly runs to the door and opens it for him.

Alfred dumps the plastic bag of goodies on the counter, proudly announcing the reaps of his harvest upon arrival. "Okay, so I got ice cream for all of us! They had all our favorites. Well, mostly, anyway. This choco-banana-pecan thing's mine, this vanilla one is yours, Mattie –they didn't have a maple flavored one, but don't worry, we've still got maple syrup in the pantry so that you can glaze it over with that like you always do – and this really girly pink one – I think the flavour's called strawberries and cream –is for Iggy."

"Quit it with the weird nicknames, you git," Arthur retorts as he snatches the small pint from the taller boy's hands before he promptly looks away. "Thank you," he mutters softly under his breath.

Matthew doesn't fail to take note of that faint blush that creeps up the British boy's cheeks though, the same shade of rose red that had stained his own moments before.


	6. Sandcastles in Spring

Sorry i disappeared yet again, but I've been busy with school demands and all. My life has been a total rollercoaster lately what with my shit attempt of a lovelife spiralling downward plus college(?) preparations. Good news though is that so far I passed one of the colleges I applied for, and I'm still waiting and praying for the results of the other two. But I'm just relieved to know that I at least have a future ensured for me from now on. Here's a little something I tried to work on to try and get back into writing, slowly, somewhat. This is more of a filler chapter though, or a semi-filler? lol. In a couple of weeks (fifteen to be exact) I'll finally be free from HS so I'll have more time to write in the summer hopefully. Thank you for having followed me with this story up 'til now. Your loyalty is much loved and much appreciated.

Disclaimer: hetalia isn't mine

* * *

"Who's up for a movie?"

Alfred asks them after he downs the last of his ice cream, his increased sugar intake clearly too much to permit him sleep.

"Sure," Matthew shrugs in an attempt to play it cool, though the prospect of watching a movie with Arthur is enough to make him giddy. "What kind?"

Arthur pipes up, "Well, it is late at night. I'm quite in the mood for a horror film."

"Uhm, Arthur. I don't think Al can handle that…"

"Nu-uh! I can totally handle it."

Matthew sighs, cocking an eyebrow at his brother in disbelief. "We've talked about this before, Al. Do you need to borrow Kuma? You might start cryi—"

"What are you talking about, Mattie?" Alfred blurts out, interrupting the younger boy. "I'm a hero!" the taller blonde affirms himself. "Heroes don't cry."

"I'm pretty sure some do." Matthew shakes his head, and fumbles through the couch cushions to find the remote.

"No they don't!"

To Matthew's luck, he doesn't find it.

"Crying's not gonna make you any less of a person, Al. Tears don't always connote weakness. For all you know, it could even signify the strength of your character. Heroes are humans too. They can feel things, and they can cry over things," Matthew explains before flashing his brother a smug grin, "like how you do whenever you watch a scary movie."

"No. I'm a hero. Heroes never cry."

"Fine. Whatever, Al. You could be an exception. You'll be the first one."

Arthur watches on, amusedly, at the banter between the two brothers. Sibling rivalry at its finest.

(– and most entertaining, he might add.)

The Briton then clears his throat to speak up. "So, erm, what film are we watching? There's this one about dolls. I think it mentioned something like the ghost of Mary Shaw."

"We could try that," Matthew suggests, "or The Grudge."

"The Grudge?!" Alfred recoils at the mere mention of the title. "Are you crazy, Mattie?! No."

"Why not?" he asks innocently. "I heard it received good reviews."

"As the hero, I forbid it."

"Yeah right, Al. You're just afraid you'll cry again at the end," Matthew teases. "Like in The Ring."

"We were twelve."

"And so? I didn't cry."

"Whatever, Matt. I was just thinking about you, you know. Maybe it's you who's gonna be the one cryin' in the end this time." Alfred retorts, pointing his figure accusingly at the younger blonde. "At nineteen! Hah!"

The younger blonde ignores him. "So, are we all good for the doll movie?"

"Chuckie?"

"Nope," Matthew replies with a mischievous grin. "Dead Silence."

"That sounds interesting," Arthur says with a hum in approval.

"Get ready to shed some tears, Alfred," Matthew teases.

"No, Matt. I'm a man. I'm a hero. I'm not gonna cry—"

"Ah, right, Mr. Hero," the Canadian replies as he sets up the TV and prepares the movie. "Get ready to shed some _manly _tears," he adds, earning him a pout from his brother. "Better?"

Arthur snickers at that, and Matthew only smiles.

-x-

There is only one couch in their entire apartment, and Matthew is sitting at the farthermost end of it.

Half the time, his eyes are transfixed onto the screen, watching as the blood splatters onto the sheets and the ground is stained in cherry red; the camera shifts angles and takes a shot of nimble wooden limbs, the furtive glances of fiberglass eyes.

Arthur shudders. Alfred screams. Violet eyes wander to the sight of the two men, huddled against one another, Arthur's feet resting atop the other's. Alfred's hands set in two different places – one sprawled across his face in an attempt to cover his eyes though he still tries to sneak a peek to watch the rest of the movie, and the other set down between him and the Englishman, gripping tightly onto his newfound anchor.

Matthew turns away, forcing himself to focus his attention on the television.

He rubs his arms and wills some warmth back into them, zipping up his jacket and drawing closer in on himself. Alfred notices this and offers to scoot over so they could share the blanket. _No thank you,_ he shakes his head. He'll be fine.

It's only forty minutes into the movie, but right now, Matthew desperately needs a smoke.

-x-

Later, when the credits are finally rolling on the screen, Matthew is the only one left awake. He drapes the blanket over the other two and takes this as his cue to leave. He stands up and walks to the television to turn it off, because the stupid remote was lost somewhere in their incredibly cluttered apartment.

With the television off, their world zaps into silence, and oddly enough it is that which wakes up the American boy.

"Mm…Matt?" Alfred whispers, voice hoarse and groggy from sleep.

"Yes, Al?" he replies, tired eyes sending a glance and a look-over at his older brother.

"I'm heading out tomorrow," Alfred says with a yawn as he rises from his seat.

"Where to?" Matthew asks, letting out a soft cough.

"Astronomy Camp. I'll be stargazing with Tino and the others."

"Alright," Matthew coughs again, an errant curl falling out of place more than usual. "Have fun."

"You okay, Mattie?" Alfred asks, concerned, and pats his younger brother on the head.

"Hm? Yeah, I'm goin' to sleep. Good night to you both."

"Night, baby bro," Alfred coos, ruffling the shorter boy's already-messy hair.

"Yes, yes," he says as he makes his way out of his brother's hold and heads to his room. "Good night, Al. See you in the morning."

Finally alone, the bespectacled blonde hovers over the Briton, covering him up with the blanket until Alfred deemed him tucked in warm and snug. He brushes the bangs away from the English boy's pale face.

Matthew lingers in the doorway for a little while longer, violet eyes lonely, longing, and ever watching.

* * *

please leave a review, thanks so much! have a nice day (or at least one better than mine)


	7. Waking Up to Disaster

Here's the next installment of MS&amp;SO for all of you. I've been meaning to put this up sooner for the holidays but my family and I flew to the province to meet with relatives so I barely had internet over there. My life has been dwindling to shit so I've been trying to go with the whole avoid-everything-and-preoccupy-self-with-work method of dealing with certain, uh, problems...so, good news for you all, I decided to write more. I have a thing for sickfics and denial and caretaking like ahmg it makes my heart just melt into a puddle of feels every damn time so I think that when I busied myself with this scene, I ended up having too much fun that the content was too much I had to split it into two chapters ehhehehe...

This chapter contains a bit of brewing USUK and although in this fic/AU, PruCan is more of my brotp than otp here, you're free to ship them however way you want to. (Don't worry, I've got loads more of shiptease moments in store for you all wahaha)

Also, I'm a sucker for irony so despite my mood, everything I've written down in this chapter (and the next) would just be pure fluff. Expect the next update to come later on this week, as I still have to polish certain things + deal with family reunions and whatnot before our break ends.

Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy my gift to you guys (however late it may be) A very very very belated Merry Christmas &amp; Happy New Year to you all :)

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but I do own this super messy plot.**

* * *

When Matthew wakes up, it is to a pounding head and an even more sore throat.

Stumbling slightly, he gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom, desperate to look for some aspirin, or a painkiller of sorts. He downs a tablet with one big gulp, looking at himself in the mirror. There are shadows that paint his pale skin, calling to attention the bags underneath his eyes. Other than that, however, he looks fine. Or so he hopes.

He decides to take a quick shower, hoping it'll help him freshen up. It takes him longer than usual. His head is foggy and his movements are sluggish. Nonetheless, Matthew manages to make it through without passing out. Kudos to him for that.

He lets out a cough and a muffled sneeze, passing the kitchen and living room on his way out, as well as the sight of a certain thick-browed Englishman conversing with his older brother.

"Honestly, Alfred," the smaller blonde fusses, as he wraps a scarf around the other's neck. "If you were going to leave first thing in the morning, you don't pack your belongings only an hour before!"

Alfred flashes him a toothy grin. "Yeah, well, I...uh...forgot?"

"How could you have forgotten? You've been looking forward to this camp of yours since last month!" He huffs, muttering a not-so-soft _Alfred, you procrastinating git _under his breath.

"Dunno," he shrugs. "At least I've got you to help me out."

Matthew makes himself some tea in the background. A little honeyed ginseng to soothe his throat.

Arthur sighs, exasperated, still holding onto the scarf but now casting a glance at the duffel bags behind the taller blonde. "Are you sure you didn't forget anything? Sleeping bag? Thermos? Uh, telescope?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," Alfred flippantly dismisses the other's concerns. "Dude, you're not even going but you're stressing over this more than I am."

"Well excuse me, you twat, I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't have a hard time while you're there. It is three days after all. Knowing you, you could forget your underwear, and end up going commando for the entirety of your weekend in those woods."

"Pfsh," he scoffs, "I told you, Artie, I'll be fine. Now I gotta go, or I'll be late. We're all meeting up in like ten minutes, and that's about the same amount of time it'll take me to reach them at the bus stop, if I run."

"Fine," the Briton says as he lets go. "Be safe now. And do keep yourself warm, you'll catch your death out there bracing the evening chill in autumn."

"Yes, _mother_!" Alfred hollers with a wave of his hand as he walks out the door. "See ya, Mattie!"

The said Canadian nods, clearing his throat. "Have fun, Al!" He shouts, plastering a smile as he waves back.

When the door clicks to a close, Matthew lets out a small breath, exhausted from the small act of farewell he had just previously exerted. He tightens his grip on the cup, holding it with two hands as he carries it to his lips and takes a sip.

"Is something the matter, Matthew?" Arthur asks him, his voice laden thick with concern.

"Oh, yes! Everything's fine," he says, the pep in his voice strained and a little too forced. His nose is running and he sniffs. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." The Briton raises a -thick- eyebrow at him. "Is something the matter? You can tell me."

Before he can respond, a hand snakes itself up to feel his forehead. Matthew feels his cheeks flush, his skin heating up almost instantly from the impact. "You feel a little warm. Are you unwell?"

Matthew shyly pulls away. "Just a headache," he coughs, "and my throat's a little sore, too. But I'll be fine."

"You should probably take the day off and rest today," Arthur says as he grabs himself a slice of toast and coats it over with jam, foregoing the strawberry and settling for apricot. "Get some sleep and keep warm under the covers."

"Mmhm," he hums, or at least tries to, what with his nose being blocked and all. "That sure sounds tempting, Arthur, but I can't afford to miss class today." He shakes his head, carrying his cup and saucer to the sink. "I should probably get going."

"Will you be fine going there on your own?"

"Really, Arthur, I'm fine. It's nothing too big for you to worry about," Matthew smiles weakly. "Thank you for your concern, though."

"If you say so." Matthew grabs his backpack, swaying slightly as he rises, and heads for the door as Arthur calls out to him in an effort to say goodbye. "Take some medicine and rest up as soon as you get back home. I have a lecture to attend in the afternoon, at two, then I'll be back at around five."

"Okay, thanks Arthur. My classes end at four, so I'll see you then," he says with a cough, bowing slightly as he takes his leave.

-x-

It is a struggle for Matthew to stay awake as the day goes on.

The hours trickle away, it's only his second class, but Matthew's head feels stuffed with cotton, his eyelids are fighting to remain open, and it is _so cold why in the name of maple is the heater broken in their classroom it's like being trapped in Russia or Antarctica or whatever when the one in his previous class seemed to kick itself into overdrive far enough to plunge him into the depths of a fiery inferno oh crisse why-_

"-hew. Matthew!" A voice jolts him out of his stupor. Matthew turns around to be greeted with a pale face - but not as pale as his today, surprisingly - and narrowed crimson eyes. "You okay, birdie?"

"I'b fide, Gil," Matthew croaks out, sniffling and cringing inwardly at the sound of his own voice. "Do you hab a tissue? I cadn't b-"

"Breathe through your nose?" His best friend finishes for him, fishing out a packet from his pocket and handing it to him. "Here, it's your lucky day. Be thankful I have allergies."

"I amb, thangks," he says, grabbing a tissue just in time to catch a sneeze. He blows his nose, trying to rid himself of the awful accent he's just recently developed. He coughs.

"You're sick," the albino says a-matter-of-factly.

Matthew stifles a sneeze at that, and then another.

"I'm fine," he replies, voice clearer this time, but punctuated with a thick sniffle.

"You're sick," he says again. "Go home."

"Is there something you would like to share with the class, Mr. Williams?" The lecturer's voice bellows in the auditorium. "_Herr_ _Beilschmidt_?" The irritation in his voice no longer held back by the time he mentions the name of his second addressee.

Gilbert is unfazed by the menace of his teacher's tone. "Yes, sir! Actually, I would like-"

"It's nothing, Professor Roma," Matthew answers back, cutting the other boy off mid-sentence. "We're very sorry for having interrupted you. Please go on."

Matthew turns away and fumbles through his backpack for a decongestant, popping the capsule in his mouth and forcibly swallowing it down. His throat hurts even more, and he winces.

"Matthew," the red-eyed boy says, and his voice goes ignored. The blonde has turned his back to him, pitifully attempting to listen to the lecturer. His notebook, usually filled with notes by now, remains blank.

"Matthew," he says again, voice more urgent this time. Ignored.

"Matthew," Gilbert growls, "look at me."

And so Matthew does.

"Seriously, Gil," the Canadian says, pushing up the glasses that seem to fall off of his nose. "I'm fine."

"Nope, birdie, you're _sick_," Gilbert says as he leans in closer, forehead touching the other's own to take his temperature. He is warm. Too warm. Gilbert worries his bottom lip. "With a fever to boot."

"It's just a cold. I can manage," Matthew reasons, though the coolness of his glasses against the increasing warmth of his skin tells the albino otherwise.

"Go home, Matt."

"We still have th-"

"The report?" the red-eyed German finishes for him yet again. "Don't worry. Ned, Rod, Liz, and I can cover for you."

"But-"

"Trust me, I can handle it. We'll manage the presentation. I'll let you in on what you've missed, help you catch up, and bring you any papers -handouts and homework - that they'll be giving out."

"Wow, if I knew this would motivate you to work harder in school, I should get sick more often."

"Please don't."

"I was just kidding."

"You get sick more often than necessary," Gilbert replies,"if my hair wasn't already white since birth, then dealing with a sick you would be the cause of it suddenly dyeing itself and making the awesome me look older. And we can't have that now, can we?"

"Definitely can't," Matthew attempts a weak chuckle. "The ladies would be disappointed."

"Exactly. Now go get some rest. I bet you feel like shit, because you sure look like it. I'd wager you're ready to pass out," Matthew's friend is pleading with him now. "And a sniffling, coughing, _unconscious_ Matthew Williams wouldn't exactly be the hottest thing on the planet. Figuratively, I mean. Literally, you practically _are_, since you're running a goddamn fever after all."

"Gee, Gil, thanks for the ego boost. That definitely makes me feel better now," Matthew snorts. "Besides, I don't think it'd be fair-"

"_Verdammt, mein _birdie," Gilbert almost shouts, but contains himself to attempt to whisper. Or at least use his indoor voice. "It won't kill you to take a day off, but it _will_ kill you not to. Come on. I'll even take some notes down for you,"

"Oh please, Gil. You and I both know that isn't gonna happen. You're not studious enough to survive note-taking for even half of a lecture. At most, I'd say you'll jot down a third, _if_ you're feeling really diligent that day," violet eyes gaze back, smugly, "or you'll be ripping them off of Roderich."

"Yeah, yeah. You got me," he raises his hands up in false surrender. "I'll be getting them from Rod, but at least that way you'll know they're complete. Now will you please go get some rest?"

Matthew coughs. "But I-"

Gilbert cuts him off yet again, resting a hand on his friend's neck to check his fever. He feels warmer now. _Schiesse._

"Go home, Matthew."

* * *

Please leave a review, I'd love to hear what you think about my writing :)

_crisse - _christ [cuss word]

-x-

_Herr - _Mr.

_Verdammt - _damn it

_mein - _my

_schiesse - _shit


	8. Needful Things

(undeniably shameless fluff and caretaking yey. just a little something to make it up to you guys because I will be off fanfics for the next 3 months due to my super shit personal life, as well as school and graduation preparations. happy reading and please leave a review!)

Disclaimer: i don't own hetalia

* * *

It's only a quarter to twelve, but Matthew finds himself back at the apartment, plopped down on the kitchen table, cradling his head in his arms.

He feels like it's about to split open and crack any minute.

Thank god for Gil who forcibly dragged his sorry ass to send him home. Matthew doesn't know how he would survive class like this. Much less survive his whole life without his best friend.

He can practically hear his voice in his head, a smug and cheeky_ Gilbo knows best _followed by his signature laugh of _kesesesese-_

Holy mother of maple, he doesn't think his head could handle much more of that.

The tea he's brewed for himself sits in the pot, atop the counter surface, untouched by the sick Canadian who lacks the strength to pour himself a cup. Minutes pass by, the throbbing of his headache dissipates, dulled out by the black that consumes his vision. Tired eyes droop down to a close.

-x-

An hour later, a certain Briton returns home, in his hand is a paperbag filled with groceries and medicine for his charge. He'll make the boy some soup and leave it for him to heat up should he wish to have dinner ahead of him. It wouldn't do well for a patient to wait up for him after all.

He fumbles for a key, and finds an unexpected guest waiting for him as he enters the room.

"Matthew?" Arthur calls out to the boy with the golden waves and errant curl, slouched upon the table with his head buried in his arms. "Is everything alright? I thought you weren't due home 'til four...?"

Arthur closes the door and settles the contents of his loot on the counter. He grabs his blanket from the couch and drapes it over the Canadian's hunched shoulders. All he hears is a small groan, a muted _thanks_ of some sort.

He rests his hand on the younger's head, patting it gently to comfort the boy. To his surprise, however, the Englishman is met by the alarming heat radiating off of him.

"Matthew?" he frets, shaking the other's shoulder in an attempt to rouse him, unease churning in his stomach. "Matthew, my boy, I need you to wake up."

The boy looks up to face him, features pale but cheeks flushed a bright rose. Arthur brings his hands to his forehead, then his cheeks, then his neck, and gauges the child's temperature. Hot. Rising. Slowly. But definitely rising.

_Oh bloody hell, the lad was burning up._

Alfred was going to _kill_ him.

"Matthew," he coaxes, green eyes heavy with worry, "we need to get you in bed. I can't carry you there on my own, but I can support you for balance. You'll have to work together with me on this."

Amethysts, glassy and unfocused, turn to the Brit, clearly confused. "Wh-" he begins to say, before his eyes go wide as saucers and he clamps a hand to his mouth but that doesn't work because it's too late and he hurls right there, right then, a puddle of vomit on the wooden apartment floor.

As well as on the leg of Arthur's khaki corduroys.

"Oh my god, Arthur. I'm so-"

Before he can continue, he goes slack in the other's arms.

-x-

When Matthew wakes up, there is a cloth laid upon his head, not quite damp as much as dripping. He spots Arthur, clad in pyjamas, curled up in his armchair, a book in tow. Said Briton even takes with him a cup of tea,which he promptly sets upon Matthew's study table. He flips to the next page. Whatever the title is, Matthew's vision isn't clear enough to tell.

And maybe it's the little things he falls in love with. For as long as he could remember, it has always been like this, Matthew recalls with a warm, tired smile. He still remembers the way Arthur sipped on his tea and hummed as he read, rubbing his thumb against the surface of the paper, always resting on a corner before turning the page.

Was he dreaming right now?

"Arthur?" Matthew calls out weakly as he coughs. "I'm sorry."

"What on earth for?"

"I got sick on you. I'm sorry."

"Oh come now, Matthew. That was hardly your fault. You couldn't help it. It happens even to the best of us."

Matthew's gaze turns to the clock on the wall. It reads four-oh-three.

Crap.

Guilt consuming him, Matthew whispers now, more scared than ever. "And Arthur?"

"What is it this time, Matthew?" The Briton replies as he shoves a bookmark between the pages and casts his novel aside.

"I'm sorry," Matthew rambles as Arthur dips the cool washcloth in the basin and lays it on his scorching forehead, before heading back to read his book. He's supposed to wring it, Matthew wants to correct him, not just plop it back there altogether, fresh out of the water. But he feels horrible enough already, and is much too shy to voice out his thoughts. "I made you miss your lecture."

"It's fine, I wasn't even interested in attending it in the first place," Arthur replies coolly. "It seemed boring anyway."

"Still though, I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be."

"But I am."

An awkward silence washes over them for a while, the quietude only disturbed at certain intervals by the sound of flipping pages and Matthew's bouts of hacking coughs.

"Goodness, your cough sounds horrid," Arthur comments, "no more cigarettes for you, not until you _completely_ recover."

Still a little dazed, Matthew only nods.

"If you don't feel well, you can always tell me or your brother, and let yourself rest instead of pushing yourself to your limits, worsening your condition to the point you would pass out."

"But it was only just a cold. Really, I-"

"And that's quite a fever you're sporting too," Arthur says at the bedside of his charge, resting a hand on his cheek. He hands the boy the thermometer and waits for it to beep.

39.2 degrees.

"With a temperature this high, I'd say you have the flu," Arthur sighs. "Please don't do that ever again, lad. You had me worried."

"I'm sorry..."

"If you're really sorry, Matthew, then make it up to me by getting well soon, alright?" Arthur smiles warmly, patting his head.

Here it is now, his heart, aching with longing. Here it is now, his mind, brimming with desire.

"I'll get myself more tea," Arthur says, his tone patient and inviting as he slowly makes his way out the door. "Is there anything you need me to get for you? Just tell me if you want anything."

Matthew looks at him, face crumpled, eyes scrunched up, voice raspy from sleep, before the words escape his lips and he blurts them out before he can take control of his emotions.

"I want you."

Oh _shit_.

"Hm? What?" Arthur takes two steps back, peering back into the room. "I'm sorry I didn't quite catch that."

"Food," he mutters instead as he wills his heart to calm down. "I want food."

"Okay, I'll make you some soup. Is chicken all right?"

His stomach still felt queasy, but by now, there was no escape. Matthew forces a small smile.

"That would be nice, thank you."

-x-

Needless to say, it took every ounce of his willpower to keep everything down that night, and the numbing of his tortured tastebuds were then added to the list of symptoms of his ailment.

Arthur falls asleep at Matthew's bedside by midnight, exhausted, having spent the evening on sick bowl duty. His head rests on tucked arms. The Briton mumbles in his sleep, a perfect harmony in tune with the Canadian's quiet snores.


	9. And The World Is Looking Bright

**i'm back :) here's more shameless cheese because i still dont know what i'm doing with my life (which is ironic because i've just graduated from hs so like shouldn't i get ahold of myself and pull my shit together?! fml huhu) which has been a mix of insanely good stuff plus super duper shitty situations hahahuhu it's getting harder and harder to get back into fandoms and find time to write nowadays but i just wanted to give you guys a little something to make it up to you for waiting for me. hopefully i can find that drive in me to continue writing again and get out of my slump this summer huhu. more importantly, however, i sincerely hope that you all enjoy. :)**

**disclaimer: **i don't own Hetalia.

* * *

Alfred returns by Monday afternoon. Matthew is still in bed, resting; the worst of his fever long since passed.

"I'm home!" Alfred hollers as soon he steps foot inside his abode. He is greeted by silence, and pouts at the reaction of his housemates - or lack thereof.

"Aw, c'mon guys. Don't I get a welcome home hug? Didn't anyone miss me?"

Alfred finds Arthur in the kitchen by the stove, slaving himself over a pot filled with chicken and noodles and vegetables in a broth of some kind.

"Hush, Alfred. Your brother's still asleep."

"Then he can wake up just in time to celebrate the hero's return!" Alfred beams proudly.

"No, he can't. He needs his rest."

"Why?"

"Your brother has taken ill."

"He's sick? With what?" Alfred questions the Brit, thinner brows raised in suspicion. "What'd you give him?"

"Antibiotics, fever reducer," Arthur answers, "and some of my chicken soup."

"Ah," the American hums, smirking, "must be food poisoning then."

Arthur slaps him on the shoulder. "No, you prat. He had the flu. I sent you a text."

"There wasn't any signal out where we were."

"Hmm."

The Briton turns away, focusing his attention back onto the stove. "And my cooking isn't that bad. You've eaten it before, haven't you?"

"It's a hero's job to rid the world of the most foul enemies. Health hazards included."

Chin up. Arthur sticks his nose up in the air. He sniffs haughtily.

"Tosser."

-x-

Matthew is reading the handouts Gilbert left for him while he lies in his room, confined by Arthur to strict bed rest.

Blue eyes peek hesitantly from behind the doorway. "Mattie?" A familiar voice whispers. "You awake?"

"Hey, Al." Matthew says. "Welcome home. I'd hug you, but I'm gross right now."

"Yeah, you are. No offense, baby bro, but you stink." Alfred laughs, plopping down beside him. He ruffles Matthew's already messy hair. "Heard you caught some nasty bug these past few days. You doin' alright, buddy?"

"I'm fine. No need to worry."

"What's your temp?"

"Last time I checked," a voice shouts from the hallway, "it was thirty-seven point nine." Arthur hovers by the doorway soon afterwards. "Matthew, would you like some soup?"

Matthew shakes his head, smiling sheepishly. "No thank you. I'm fine, Arthur."

"That was what you said last time, before you keeled over and fainted into my arms." Arthur scoffs. Alfred half-laughs at that – half because he was worried about his brother after all, Matthew has never been so sick to collapse since he was ten; the other half because, well, it does seem kind of funny, the idea of his brother fainting like a princess.

"Real manly, Mattie."

"Shut up, Al."

Arthur hands him a bowl. "Now, here. Soup."

Matthew looks up to face his brother. "You know, Arthur's really tired. He's taken care of me all weekend. I bet he hasn't gotten much sleep from that. Don't you think he should rest now, Alfred?"

"You heard him, Artie. You need to take a break." Alfred proclaims. "The hero can take charge here. To my quarters, soldier! Get some sleep."

"I'm not the one who went on a stargazing trip. Surely, you're more exhausted than I am. You should evacuate Matthew's bedroom and sleep in yours before you catch what your brother has."

"I slept too much on the bus ride back home. You, on the other hand, have spent more time with Matthew than I did. Being cooped up here while caring for my sick brother is what'll make you more likely to catch it, genius." Alfred explains, placing his hands on the Briton's shoulders and proceeding to shove him gently out of the room. "Take a nap, Igs. You can use my bed."

Arthur doesn't complain about the nickname, which is more than enough proof of his exhaustion.

"Fine," he crosses his arms, acquiescing. "Don't say I didn't warn you if you did catch your brother's flu, all because you wouldn't listen."

"Then I'll just have you take care of me as well, hmm?" the taller boy teases.

"N-no!" he stammers. "T-there's no way, I-I'd take c-care of y-you…i-i-idiot." The other boy reddens at that, fumbling for a response. "You ought be responsible for yourself. It'll be your fault, after all."

Alfred lets out an exaggerated sigh, theatrical in its nature. "Whatever you say, Artie," he replies with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Git," he pouts, and mutters in response.

Matthew continues to watch their playful banter, the older boys' exchange of teasing remarks, wondering what it'd be like to one day stand in his brother's shoes, and be able to talk to Arthur comfortably like this. Unprejudiced. Uncalculated. Unguarded.

_Ah._

So this must be love through the eyes of another, he realizes. Trapped beneath the surface, always from the outside looking in.

"You better finish the soup before I get back, Matthew," Arthur addresses his patient, cutting off his train of thought, "or else you'll never get better."

_Actually, _Matthew wants to say, _I think it'll just make me feel worse._

But of course, he bites his tongue at that remark, keeping it to himself, at least for the time being.

The Canadian swallows hard, his gaze falling on the pattern of his quilted sheets. He waits for the Englishman to exit the room."Uhm, Al?" He turns to his brother, the weight of the world seemingly falling on his shoulders, violet eyes pleading for help.

"It's that bad, huh?"

Matthew wants to shake his head, but to his brother, he can never lie. He almost wants to tell him that _no it's actually wonderful thanks for asking big bro _because it's Arthur's and Arthur made it just for him so he really appreciates the effort and all, but it's precisely because it is Arthur's that he knows that is not the case. Yes, he loves Arthur, but he does _not_ love his cooking. "Well…uhm…" Matthew struggles to find the right words. "N-not…not really? I-I mean…it was horrible the first time I tried it. That was on Friday…. But it's a bit better now, I guess? The one he gave me yesterday was a little more...palatable. He sort of uh, improved...?"

His brother simply laughs at that.

"Don't worry. I'll eat it," Alfred whispers to his brother with a wink. "Then I'll get you some IHOP for dinner."

The thought of pancakes is enough to make his mouth water. Matthew - no longer as ill as he was before - grins at him, and the world is looking bright.

"My hero."

* * *

_**r&amp;r please and thank you :) **_


	10. Between Heaven & Earth & the Midday Sun

**hello loyal readers thank you so much for always waiting for my updates it really means a lot to me that you guys cared enough to bother yourselves and read my work. i'm sorry for having disappeared and** **for having - irresponsibly - left this on what was probably a month-long hiatus. i realized that this piece of mine has been going on for more than a year now **(_ohmygod_) **and well, i haven't done much shit to move the plot along **(like srsly the past few chapters have just been me indulging in my cliche fangirl fantasies of fluffy caretaking and a blooming pseudo-romance HAHAhuhu)

**the first cause of celebration is that i've finally figured the plot out -sorta- soo ****i'll be updating this more religiously now. expect more frequent updates. _yay_**

**another isfor the bonus cameo of my/everyone's favorite tsundere otp, spamano (_yaaaaaayyyy !)_**

****lol so anyway, without further ado, here's the latest update and i hope this makes up for my long absence.****

****disclaimer: **i don't own hetalia**

* * *

The weekend after his recovery, Gilbert takes Matthew out to the recently opened bar in celebration. It's a place frequented by those from the university, because it offered fifty percent off as a generous discount to the poor undergraduates often drowning in student loans and academic debt. Gilbert was grateful to have stumbled across this place thanks to his friend Antonio, as the Spaniard had recently landed himself a job there as a bartender.

He was a hit with the ladies, and even more so with the men – particularly, a certain _Italian_ man.

"Antonio, my bro!" he calls out to his pal. "I want two whiskeys, one neat and the other on the rocks!"

"Sure thing, _mi amigo. _Nice to see you've dropped by—" the Spaniard replies before turning his attention back to a certain amber-eyed male. "Now, now, _Lovinito_. I'll be done with my shift in another half hour. I know you aren't very patient, but can you be a good little _tomate_ and wait for me then?"

"What are you talking about, _idiota_? I'm plenty patient," the boy huffs then crosses his arms. "Just hurry up_. _If you're late by even a _minute_ beyond that, I'm driving and leaving you behind."

Gilbert chuckles to himself at the sight when he sees the two bicker on the counter, two bar seats away. _Ah ah ah – _just a little longer and who knows what'll happen next. Crimson eyes glint with mischief. _Give them two more months and they might even go domestic._

"What are you saying, Romano? You're drunk. You can't even stand, much less drive." He coos to the boy and rubs his soothing circles with his thumb on the back of the other's hand, before resuming his work and setting up the two drinks.

"Then you better hurry the fuck up, bastard." Romano scoffs, a stray lock of hair curling at its end. If Antonio peered closer, he would've noticed it was akin to a heart.

-x-

When they get their drinks, Matthew is the first to take a quick swig and cuts straight to the chase.

"Gilbert, can we talk?"

It takes him by surprise as he's sipping his drink, and it shows in the Prussian's face for only a brief moment in the sudden lift of his brows, before he steadies his gaze and gives his best friend his attention and the floor.

"Precisely why we're here, Matthew my boy," he says, patting the table surface on his side, a blend of wood and layers of cool marble. "Shoot, _mein _birdie. And let me hear it – I'm all ears."

-x-

"Tell me something, Matt. And I want you to be completely honest with me when you do."

"O-okay…?" He braves himself to say with a small nod. Vermillion eyes turn to look at him in scrutiny before their owner lets out a sigh and props his elbows on the black marble surface.

"_You're in love, aren't you?"_

"I…I-I…" he stutters, "I don't k-know."

"You are," Gilbert says right then and it hits him. "I know you and I can see it and _you are_."

"I think I am…but I'm not sure. I just—"

"Is it Arthur?" Gilbert's quiet voice asks, and Matthew can't help but notice he looks kind of sad when he says it, too. From behind his glasses, violet eyes see the twinge in the expressions that they've grown far too familiar with over the course of a friendship and its span of nine years. But Matthew can't say anything because there's nothing he can do except bite his lip and crumple his face because he really badly just wants to cry.

"O-_Oi_, Matt," Gilbert notices, and he's suddenly lost as to what to do. Not wanting to cause a scene, he directs the boy's attention elsewhere. "Alright, fine. You don't have to tell me anymore. I won't ask."

"It's…it's not fair," Matthew says, hiding his face in the nook of his arms. "It's not fair."

"I know, birdie," Gilbert says as he holds him, wrapping an arm over the other's hunched shoulders and cradling the boy close to his chest. It was never fair.

It takes a good three minutes of rising embarrassment – nine years and all, these boys _still_ weren't exactly comfortable with the close up skin-ship of being best friends – before Gilbert finally lets go and Matthew raises his head, using his wrists to wipe the edges of his eyes and running his sleeve under the crook of his nose.

"Eugh, that's disgusting. Here; use a tissue, snot face," his best friend chides to lighten the mood. Matthew takes the offered pack with gratitude and a smile.

"Sorry about that..." the Canadian mumbles in an attempt to maintain his composure.

"Not a problem," the Prussian answers back. "Now, Matt…there are two things."

"Two things?"

"_Ja_!" Gilbert exclaims, prompting, and repeats; raises a fist for emphasis. "Now listen to the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt and my awesome advice. There are two things, Matthew Williams, that all men follow – in the code of honour and glory and victory…and whatnot."

Matthew almost snorts at his friend's mock display of pride, which is almost a bit too enthusiastic for his taste, but there's more to what the albino has to say and the blonde doesn't want to be rude and cut him off before he finishes what he's set out to do.

"You can choose to wait it out," Gilbert remarks, "or you can do what all real men do – in the name and sake of their love."

"What's that?" Matthew pouts and quirks an eyebrow in doubt.

"If your love is strong enough, or if your feelings are true, and you believe in what you have," his voice trails off to a near whisper but then Gilbert inches closer and looks at Matthew, steals a glance and steels his gaze, "then you fight for it."

Matthew lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. The boy clutches the knees of his trousers and looks down, and all of a sudden he's taken a very large interest in the tiles on the ground. "So…what do I do, Gil?"

Moments tick, and –

_And it's quiet_, Matthew thinks, because his companion has suddenly opted to remain silent for the remainder of a while, sipping his drink quietly and waiting for the Canadian to raise his head and look him in the eye. When he does, the Prussian lets the ice rattle in his cup as he sets it firmly down above the counter's marble top. His gaze is distant, but it is not cold, either.

"Be a man, Matthew," the silver-haired boy replies. "You do what you're supposed to."

* * *

_**please leave a review, thank you, and i hope you all have pleasant evenings and even nicer days. :)**_


	11. The Placebo Effect

new chapter! yay. this is just like the calm before a storm or smt idrk i've planned out for this to have 4 more chapters until we reach the end

disclaimer: still dont own hetalia

* * *

Matthew stumbles home in the wee hours of the morning – precisely at one-oh-five, to be exact. He fumbles with his keys when he realizes that his knees are about to give way and his motor skills are failing him to the point that his fingers are near to the point of being rendered immobile. He thinks about rapping on the wooden door in hopes of getting someone to open it for him but stops short when he realizes that his brother is probably furious with him for having gone out for too long without asking permission or giving him a short notice.

His vision spins momentarily; the Canadian leans onto the door for support while at the same time suppressing the small urge of his stomach to throw up, He curses his alcohol intake and takes a deep breath – _you got this, Matthew – _before _very_ _quietly_ jamming the key into the lock. He's about to twist it in the keyhole when Matthew stumbles forward, falling to the floor and catching himself on his arms and his knees before he plants himself face first onto the ground.

He looks up, dazed, wondering if the door opening by itself had been done by some act of God or maybe even magic, and finds that it's only Arthur – a familiar pair of green eyes looking down on him from where the spectator had been standing indicates his findings to be so.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I heard the sound of keys and thought you might've needed help to get inside," the English boy reasons, crouching down to lend him a hand, but not letting go of his grip on the doorknob either. "Are you alright, Matthew?"

Surprised, the Canadian boy nearly leaps in his hasty attempt to stand. Pushing his glasses back up to their proper place, he replies, "_Ah_– yes, sorry. I'm fine."

They make their way back into the flat. Matthew sheds off his hoodie and hangs it on the rack while Arthur plops down onto his usual spot on the couch and picks up another one of his thick books. Two empty cups lay untouched on the coffee table – Arthur's plain white and Alfred's a DIY project made spotted with a sharpie– and Matthew sighs internally at the water rings he is sure will form on the surface because his brother has never been one to be a fan of coasters as well as saucers. He'll have to get that cleaned tomorrow.

A voice jolts him out of his thoughts. "So?"

"So…what?" Mathew asks, expression blank and unable to catch on.

"So where _were_ you?" Arthur inquires flatly. "Drinking, I presume? _Adnams' Triple Grain Number Two_."

Before Matthew can say otherwise, Arthur cuts him off.

"Don't deny it; I can smell it on you."

_Figures. _Of course Arthur would've mastered what different sorts of alcohol would smell like. Or, at the very least, the whiskey flavors and their varieties.

The shy boy apologizes, flashing the older boy a guilty smile.

"You should've at least called, you know. Or left a note. Your brother was very worried."

_And so was I, _Matthew understands even though Arthur doesn't quite say it. (He's too prideful to do that.) But it's so obvious even Matthew can tell - by the tone of his voice and the pallor of his skin and the bags underneath the rings of his eyes. It's late but he hasn't slept. The Briton had stayed up all night just to keep watch and wait for his return.

Still, Matthew doesn't want to put the older boy in a hot seat and embarrass him by pointing it out, so he pretends not to notice it for now.

"Yeah…is Al mad at me?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Not in the slightest, but he will be if he catches you in that get-up by tomorrow."

"What?"

"I told him you were at your friend's place working on some project," Arthur covers smoothly. "He assumed it would be that red-eyed boy, Gilbert, so I nodded to play along and we left it at that."

"Hmm," Matthew mumbles, amused. "Okay…so what's wrong with my clothes?"

Arthur clicks his tongue in distaste. "In case you haven't noticed, _boy, _you still reek of the bar. And while your brother may be quite dense, he would not be so daft as to be unable to put two and two together when he realizes that _one_ – I lied to him, _two_ – the reason for his little brother's sudden disappearance was simply to loiter around and get himself utterly _pissed_, and _three_—" Arthur puts his fingers up at the enumeration before pausing to ask the younger boy a question. "Were you alone, or did you have company?"

"Uhm, I was with Gil."

_Oh – _Arthur lets out a breath, slightly relieved – _so he was right about that._

"Alright, nevermind then…" the Briton says, squinting his eyes as though taunting him in his interrogation, "I guess that counts as you being supervised."

"Guess so."

"Now go," Arthur finally concedes as he sighs in surrender. "Take a shower and get out of those clothes. Dry off properly so you don't catch another cold."

"Yes, mother," the blonde boy grins and the other rolls his eyes. "Just kidding. Thanks for covering for me, Arthur. I owe you one."

"You owe me a whiskey," the Briton says with a wave of his hand. "Now _shoo_."

"Make it _Adnams_!" Arthur hollers when Matthew rushes to the bathroom in haste, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough so as not to rouse the American in the other room. "But I want a _Number One_ this time. And don't forget to brush your teeth!"

Matthew laughs at this and turns on the shower as the water drowns out the noise.

"Sure, sure."

-x-

It's a quarter past two by the time Matthew finishes with his shower, and he steps out the room and pummels himself to his bed. He lands on cotton and relishes in the touch, spreading his arms as his body stretched over the space of the mattress.

"It is pathetic, I must admit, that I find myself hopelessly and terribly _terribly _in love with you," A whisper; Matthew breathes, and says to no one in particular – says it to the stars and to the moon and to the cosmos of the sky.

His vision blurs; a tear escapes him and streaks down his cheek. A pale arm rests on his face and he heaves a staggered breath. He can't cry; his mind tries to reason. He shouldn't cry.

But he does anyway.

"I love you," he says, choked up as he sobs, lungs heaving hard amidst puffed and glistening eyes.

"I love you," he cries, his voice raw and throat dry and chest heavy with a heartache wrought from a decade of longing.

"I love you, Arthur Kirkland," he whispers at last; a confession confined to the walls of his bedroom, like a secret tucked away in the realms of the night.

* * *

please leave a review. :) i will try to post another instalment during the weekend, hopefully by saturday.


	12. Here Be Dragons

new chappie, as promised. matthew finally finds himself treading certain uncharted waters. the last scene in particular here may or may not be a treat

**disclaimer: **still dont own hetalia

* * *

_And I hate how I know you will never be mine._

-x-

Matthew wakes up two hours later. Strange, he doesn't even recall having ever fallen asleep. He feels the impending need to throw up again but he suppresses the urge as his vision goes woozy for a short while. He clutches his head, anticipating great pain but to his disappointment, nothing comes. There is no threat of a hangover, at least not yet; Matthew knows his body well enough to understand what this means and he curses it all the same.

He waits twenty minutes before getting out of bed, heading to the kitchen to brew himself coffee. The sky is still dim, and lies tranquil in wait of the brink of the peering sun. It is, approximately, four am. Arthur is sprawled on the couch. Matthew looks at him, adjusting the chevron-print blanket that was thrown over the thin boy's frame haphazardly before promptly shuffling away. The apartment is old, and the wood creaks at the action. Arthur wakes up. The noise startles them both.

"Ah, Matthew," he says, roused from his slumber and stifling a yawn. "Good morning."

"_A-ah, _yes_! _A pleasant morning to you as well, Arthur," Matthew stammers in panic. Still enamoured, his heart jumbles up into a mess every time he catches sight of the boy – choppy locks and amazon eyes and skin so pale like the face of the moon in the sky up above and the fragments of alabaster pooling at his feet.

The Briton folds up his blanket and is heading to the kitchen to prepare their breakfast when _no really just sit down you shouldn't have to so please don't_ is all Matthew can think as he represses the early memory of his flu and the other's chicken noodle soup. Still, Arthur is stubborn, and insists on doing this as a way of giving back to the brothers who've helped give him a shelter he can call home. And when he puts it that way, how could Matthew ever resist the sweet British boy– much less say no?

But Arthur says something else, and it shuts his earlier thoughts down entirely.

"I could make pancakes," the Briton offers, and that's when all peace gets thrown out the window and Matthew decides on how it's finally time he put his foot down.

-x-

They create a system and split up their duties, agreeing afterwards that they will divide their portions. Matthew is in charge of the pancakes, which is to be expected; meanwhile, Arthur has settled for cooking sausages and eggs sunny side up – a slave to the stove.

-x-

It starts out innocently enough.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Matthew is wrong to have underestimated the power of English breakfasts, because the food the Briton makes this time is actually quite palatable and surprisingly somewhat good, and maybe he should just put Arthur in charge of breakfast every time everyday if it were always going to be this. No threats of infirmity, food poisoning, sudden _death_—

Even as he eats, the Canadian can't help but sneak a peek in the older boy's direction every now and then.

Then Arthur cuts in with a conversation that Matthew can see he is struggling to keep it from being brief, mumbling about the weather and his comments on the adverts on the daily paper and _should we wake up your brother lest his food grow cold _and warning him to bring an umbrella because he's not certain as to whether or not he think it will rain later today and prompts Matthew to say so if his opinion regarding that matter states otherwise. The older boy's attention is transfixed on the spreadsheet before him, and when Matthew doesn't give Arthur an answer, the silence is filled by the shuffle of papers and of him turning the pages.

_Look at me, Arthur, _Matthew wants to say. _Won't you look at me? Please. _

_Can't you see?_

_I'm right here, aren't I?_

He assumes it's a hangover, but Matthew's silence worries the Briton. Such so when he finishes his meal and rises from his seat, he inches closer towards the younger boy's face – to Matthew's horror and pleasant surprise.

_Fight for it. _

His heart urges, a thousands beats too loud as it pumps hard in his chest; alcohol still strong in his blood and coursing mercilessly through his veins.

"Are you feeling alright, lad? We have aspirin in the cabinet. Would you like that?" Arthur asks him, concerned, but all Matthew can think of is how _no no no_ he is not all right and this isn't comfortable and they're far too close and _shit shit fucking shit _and _Arthur's lips look soft enough to _kiss_._

And that's the thing about the mind, you see. Feed it an idea, and you'll spark a thought. Close your eyes; listen to an order, and – regardless of the absurdity of it all – it will always, _always_, follow.

-x-

"Listen, Arthur," whispers Matthew, before drawing near – _so near_ \- like the naive and ever persistent moth, drawn almost inevitably close to the unforgiving flame. "_Listen_—"

There is a silence – the large intake of breath, before the noise is muffled out by the thick blanket of surprise and the boy presses his mouth in a warm kiss firmly atop his. It's an act of impulse when their tongues are caught and they're locking lips while he's quickly losing air and nearing asphyxiation but Matthew pulls closer and he isn't stopping before his eyes widen with comprehension and he realizes what he's doing and that— _oh my god_, he's_ kissing _Arthur and, before it dawns on him as to where his thoughts are headed, it's all shaken off because Matthew is trapped, thinking that oh god_, oh god –_ _Arthur's kissing him right _back_._

Light is streaming through the window and the sunrise is overhead but neither of them notices, much less pays attention. Arthur veers towards his touch and it takes two more breathless seconds before they pull away. Matthew needs air, knees weak with fatigue.

_I'm right here. _Matthew whispers, hangs his arms around the other's neck, murmurs _Arthur? _into his ear and asks the boy again. _Can you hear me?_ The older boy complies. Matthew gasps – once, twice – and is about to start another once over. There is nothing he wants more – _nothing he seeks greater_ – than Arthur's affection.

"Hey, Arthur—"

_Won't you listen?_

A confession, Arthur almost hears him say. There is an _I love you_, mouthed but not muttered, and the sentiment of it hangs still in the air and in the fingers that coil tightly around Arthur - in the grooves of his palms and the warmth of his hands and the callouses of his knuckles and their spaces in between. Lilac eyes turn to him - bright, earnest, and glistering - a look of longing and anticipation to hear his response. Yet, the bewildered boy cannot fathom one in the slightest.

"M…M-Matthew, I—"

_I love you too_, Matthew wants to hear him say, but the words escape him and he chokes back a sob – because he thinks of his brother and he regrets and repents and it's all too much; he was never meant to be here – and what comes out instead is a garble of snot and tears and the quiet, strangled cry of a boy and his heart coated with hesitation and the overwhelming pain of an apology.

_I'm sorry,_

he hears a voice say at last, and when Arthur is left bewildered - stunned and lost and looking at the door left ajar in the smaller boy's wake - he isn't entirely sure if he's said it himself or if Matthew has taken the liberty of stealing his words together with his lips.

* * *

reviews will be very much appreciated. hope you all have a nice day :D

(also, this kissing scene was especially fun to write hahaha pls dont kill me)


	13. Walking on Eggshells

sorry i meant to put this up earlier but i got carried away working on a kurobasu fic ahaha anyway here you go. but** good news i'm putting up two chapters to make up for it yay**

**disclaimer: **i don't own hetalia

* * *

Arthur is with Alfred and they are buying groceries together, the taller pushing the cart and the other picking from the aisles. They're practically _married_, his mind thinks sickeningly, and Matthew watches them from afar, like the wistful, stupid, jaded fool that he is.

"Hey, Mattie!" his brother calls him over to their spot near the bread and the assortment of jam jars. He holds up something that looks like a container of peanut butter, but upon closer inspection turns out to be some sort of choco-hazelnut spread. "What brand would you like better? This _Crumpy_ one or _Nutella_?"

The younger boy shoves his hands in his hoodie's pockets and stares at him with bored eyes. He doesn't really care. Matthew wishes Alfred would just shut his trap and stuff himself with sweets 'til his mouth frothed over and his body keeled dead, but almost immediately recoils at the thought.

"Either," the blonde replies with an exasperated sigh. He wants to hate Alfred, his brother, the golden boy and his cheerful smile and his sunshine hair and his even brighter eyes. But he can't. He doesn't deserve it. Matthew's a jerk and Alfred's a dork and he's too nice and Matthew just _can't_.

"Okay, I'll take both," Alfred shrugs. "You can try them both out if you like."

"And if he doesn't fancy this new one—" Arthur interjects.

"Then he can just leave it out for me," Alfred grins, another one from his dazzling set of smiles. "I won't be wasting money, Art. So don't '_fret_.' The hero's got everything under control."

Just his luck, the violet-eyed boy admonishes with defeat. Leave it to Matthew and his rotten luck for fate to set him up in a love rivalled with a saint.

-x-

"I need a smoke," Matthew tells them as soon as they finish unloading the paper bags and stocking up their fridge. It's a little too small, a little too rushed, and Matthew is shaking just a little too slightly. "Don't bother calling me for dinner. I can just eat later."

"But it's pizza—"

"It's _fine_, Alfred."

The door clicks close and the boy runs down the hall, so quick in his steps; Alfred turns around to face his friend, who is preheating the oven and setting the dough. _I wonder what's wrong with Matt, _Alfred sighs out loud, emotions still churning with a sense of unease. He's been upset all day. _Did something happen?_

"Give the boy some space," Arthur reasons as he works on the chopping board, not batting an eyelash nor sparing a glance.

"Geez, Artie." The blue-eyed boy raises his arms in surrender. "Seems like everyone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. What's got you up in knots too, Mister Cranky-pants?"

_"No, _Alfred, I'm not." The Briton sighs, hoping to knock some sense into this overthinking idiot, as he looks him in the eye. "He's probably just tired, you know. Having worked on that project of his with Gilbert last night."

"Hmm…I guess you're right," Alfred says, looping his arms around in a casual embrace before taking over his share of ingredients and their division of the tasks, when his eyes catch glimpse of a familiar metal box abandoned on the coffee table. Matthew's about to head out the hallway and up the rooftop stairs when a voice calls out to him and a hand lands on his shoulder and his breath catches in surprise.

"You forgot this." Alfred pants, having jogged in his pursuit down the hall, and hands him his lighter.

"Oh, right. Al. Thanks." He takes the Zippo from his grasp and stashes it in his pocket.

"You okay there, little bro?" Alfred asks, and his brow shoots up, concerned. The shorter boy shrugs it off. He needs to get away.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just missed the stars, you know? I'm excited to see the view. I'm heading up now, 'kay?" It's a little forced, but Matthew grins sheepishly. His brother doesn't buy it, at least not completely, but he sighs and gives up on the matter. His face relaxes and he pats the Canadian reassuringly on his shoulder.

"_Oooh~kay_, _Mattie_," the American singsongs playfully, ruffling his bangs and the stray curl of his hair. "Don't smoke too much now, you hear?"

But that isn't a problem for him at all because when Matthew is done scuffling up two flights of stairs, he doesn't pull out his lighter nor a cigarette. He scoots down to the pavement and huddles close to his chest, heliotrope eyes wet and mirroring the constellations, forcing them to listen to his strangled, sordid cries.

"Why?" the boy asks, his voice cracking as he sobs. "Why can't it be _me_?"

And the wind holds him close but tells him nothing; for he cannot, does not, and will not ever find the answer.

-x-

He's crying – still is – and by the time the moon hangs low and the city falls prey to the dormancy of their dreams, Matthew's thoughts wander to their conversation a day before. The Canadian finds that a million things are whirring through him in his mind, zipping past in the blank world of a psychological abyss. His mind weighs the options. He thinks of Gilbert, thinks of Arthur, then thinks of everything.

He can choose to go on in the limbo of emotions and resume to his 'normal' life – it's going to hurt, Matthew's sure, but he can endure it, though; it doesn't matter as long as they are somewhat together. Or, he can choose to fight for the boy in hopes to win him over. Or—

_Or, _Matthew thinks. _Silly Gil, there are actually three._

(In his defense, Gilbert's not stupid. Gilbert knows it all, except he only zipped his lips for his best friend's sake. And Matthew _knows_ that Gilbert _knows _but couldn't find it in his heart to tell him when he was only grasping straws and nearing hope's end. He knew there was a third. There has always been a third.)

"Now what?" the boy sighs and he closes his eyes with a sound like a whimper. "Now what do I do?"

_Be a man, _he almost hears his best friend whisper, _you do what you're supposed to._

So Matthew does.

He lets go.

* * *

_please review._


	14. Ceasefire

i liked writing this part a lot - mainly the starting and ending points of this chapter lol.

**disclaimer: **i dont own hetalia

* * *

He will leave him quietly.

Matthew will not pester him, nor demand for closure. Because what is there for him to close in the first place? Arthur was never his to begin with. They were never anything. But Matthew, stupid as he was, clung onto the hope that yes, maybe, they could have been. They lingered in the realm of possibility, teetering on frayed edges, dancing a waltz between the borderlines of _are, almost, _and – quite possibly_ – never._ Like a pendulum swinging in mid-air - back and forth, back and forth - never suspended in a single position. Like grey clouds looming in the sky, dry and not dripping, but heavy with the promise of rain. Like the words that linger on his lips, damp with regret but left unspoken and hushed, to keep them from wounding each other any further.

How can you mourn the loss of something that was never, not once, even there?

-x-x-

When Matthew wakes up, there is a blanket over his shoulders and the dip of a sofa underneath the scaffold of his physique. The scent of tea fills his nostrils – it's a soft, soft chamomile – and Matthew opens his eyes and blinks in mid-state torpor.

"I see you're awake," Arthur comments with a hum, and his solemn voice jerks Matthew out of his languor. "Pardon the couch. I know it's not as luxurious as the comforts of your mattress."

"No, it's okay," the bespectacled boy swallows, "I appreciate it. Thanks."

"We would've brought you to your bed but your room was locked and neither of us wanted to come off rude by meddling with your belongings to search for your keys." The Briton prattles and continued to explain. He shoots a glance at the shy boy. "What were you doing up there? You were on the ground when we found you passed out."

"I was watching the stars, and then…" Matthew trails off, and he remembers crying, but he doesn't say that so he goes for an alternative instead.

Arthur's forehead creases from worry and suspicion. "And then?"

"And then I fell asleep," Matthew finishes lamely.

"Matthew," Arthur laments, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the threat of an impending headache, "did you really _think_ it was a good idea to take a nap on the sky deck during the night _and _in the blasted middle of _September?_ Or were you not thinking at all? Do you not understand what autumn is for? Or the concept of transitioning to the _cold_ of the near winter?"

"Sorry—"

"So long as you understand, then it's fine," Arthur answers back. " I don't think either of us would want a replay of you getting sick and fainting into a syncope…_again._ You're heavier than you look."

"Sorry, Arthur," Matthew blushes; mulberry eyes light and dreamy, "that you had to … uh, carry me."

"I didn't. It was your brother this time."

"Oh, sorry."

"Don't be," his voice is calmer now, and he jokes, "that boy's all caffeine, sugar, and a pudgy stomach he likes to call 'muscle' – he could've used the exercise."

But calm is a thing that Matthew, for sure, isn't. The guilt rides his mind and nestles in his chest and he's about explode if he keeps this on bottled up for even a moment longer.

"I'm sorry, Arthur—"

The Englishman harrumphs and, sparing a glance, arches a thick brow up. "Honestly, Matthew. Just once is enough. You don't have to be sorry for every little thing-"

"But I…I am sorry," Matthew sits up straight in his seat, and Arthur doesn't stop to notice the stiffness in his shoulders and the abrupt shaking of his head. "About…about yesterday."

His face is flushed a deep beet red, and the younger boy notes that for once, Arthur's complexion is no longer as pale. The Englishman is looking at him before he drops his gaze, but amethyst eyes are persistent and Matthew still holds his stare.

_Oh. _

Then Matthew kisses him again, and almost by instinct, Arthur kisses back; the Englishman's tea dropping onto the table in a resounding clatter that echoes throughout what seems to be the entirety of their living space floor.

"Stop that!" Arthur shouts and pulls away for air; wipes the edge of his mouth, running it over with the fabric of his sleeve. "You can't keep on assaulting me, _or anyone else for that matter_, just as you see fit—"

"I know," Matthew says, and he laughs. It hurts, but he can't let the other boy know. His voice ricochets like the sound of broken glass. "That was just to shut you up."

"_Oi_, M-Matthew—!"

"Don't worry, Arthur," the younger boy says to him after a long, long time – with a crinkle in his cheeks and a brief hint of a sigh. Then he peers in closer and traces his lips and closes his eyes and takes hold of his soul. "_This is the_ _last_."

-x-

"I want to be honest with you, Matthew," Arthur swallows, hard. "I'm sorry—"

At this, Matthew only presses a finger to his lips and shakes his head. "You can't do that, Arthur. You can't just kiss people and apologize for it afterwards."

"But I wasn't the one who—"Arthur's about to deny everything before Matthew cuts him off with the onslaught of a spiel.

"You can't keep yourself open and let them kiss you like that either. It makes me seem like I'm just a petty thing. You shouldn't make someone feel something then say that you're sorry. It's like telling me that I'm worth feeling sorry for; that I was the mistake, and that my heart means nothing more to you than a house not of love but of regrets, clumped together and waiting only to be incinerated like scraps of garbage in a dumpster, in a fire."

Arthur looks at him, eyes shooting up and down the younger boy and tracing his brightened gaze, and he can tell how much it is that the boy feels. Flung too far from hope, Matthew has run out of tears to express his sorrows; so he laughs, and even though his expression isn't forced, he looks tired and sad all the same.

"I'm sorry I can't return your feelings, Matthew," Arthur speaks; his voice so soft as his hand runs through the tresses of his hair. He looks at the boy, his eyes the rawness of doubt, of fear, and a mixture of pride-ridden embarrassment. His feelings are too much for him to bear alone. "I'm in love with someone else."

Matthew returns his stare before, finally, he clears his throat and asks him – tone honest and kind and with the quietest of smiles, "It's Alfred, isn't it?"

And Arthur doesn't say anything, doesn't even have to nod. Because before he gets the chance to do so – before he even gets a chance to shed a tear or begin to cry – Matthew kisses him, on the cheek, and tells him that no, there's no need to be sorry and it's okay, he understands and – _hush – _it will be all right_. I'm not angry_, he promises and Matthew takes him by the hand and tells him _I know, Arthur, _and says it again, _I know –_and in the gentlest, most patient, of murmurs – _I've always known._

* * *

i wanted to make their parting scene come off as something simple and realistic, nothing too grandiose. (i wonder if i was able to achieve that.)

the next chapter to be posted will be the final one and will serve as the epilogue to this humble MapleTea story of mine. :)

kindly leave a review, please and thank you :)


	15. Oh the Places We'll Go

epilogue chapter, marking the end of MS&amp;SO. i tried to make it very slice-of-life-like, no intense drama/shouting/etc. some relationships end violently, while others are more akin to that of a quiet and distant calm. i tried to portray the latter, so if you wanted more intense stuff, then i'm sorry but this chapter isn't like that at all haha. nonetheless, i hope you all enjoy the final instalment of my MapleTea story. please leave a review :)

**disclaimer: **i don't own hetalia

* * *

Before dawn comes closer and Alfred wakes from his bed, the two sit together on the wooden living room floor. There are no kisses – there is no need for that – but it is probably the most intimate of moments that they have ever shared in the company of the pulsing of their heartbeats and the weaving of their minds – a thousand notions spun round and round with an infinity of their dreams.

_Thank you, Matthew – _Arthur utters and inclines — _I am grateful. _Then he inches closer, flashing both a smile and a pair of dazzling eyes. _Thank you, _Arthur whispers, and their foreheads touch close to fill the void that lay between.

The boy looks at him before he answers, with every ounce of his breath and every sting of his tears pouring out from the corners of his damp violet eyes. The waterworks are flowing, a deluge has broken out, and Matthew doesn't hold anything back as he mumbles to fill the stillness with his voice; a reply.

_I love you,_ Matthew manages to say to him at last._ I loved you._

-x-

More than the '_I love you_'s, it's a single '_thank you' _that can get us the most.

-x-x-

It takes two months before the news breaks out: Matthew's leaving.

He's already filed his two weeks' notice for a leave of departure beforehand, saying it was unreasonable for Arthur to remain stuck sleeping on a couch– or be coerced into sharing a _single-_sized bed with his giant titan of a brother – when Arthur paid his own equal share of the rent. It's more practical for work purposes too, he reasons, as Gilbert lived much closer to their department, having shared the same major with him in university.

"We could buy another bed," a tall blonde says between sniffles. It takes a while before Alfred, whose body is presently being wracked with sobs, begins to form coherent sounds and quite possibly make any sense. Or at least try to. "We could buy another bed or I could teach you how to ride a bike or you could even get a car if you don't want to walk and the commute was a problem—"

His brother is crying and his face is a mess – a groveling, bespectacled mess in a puddle of tears – and Matthew just laughs, because it's just so sweet and it's just so _Alfred_, to be acting like this when Matthew is only a few minutes short of moving away.

"I'll be fine, Al," Matthew expresses and rubs soothing circles on the large of his back, "so stop crying."

"B-But…but Mattie, I'll miss you!" Alfred whines, and hugs the Canadian in the tightest of brotherly embraces. "Don't go!"

Matthew wrenches himself out of his brother's monster grip and pinches his cheek, verbalizes a _seriously Al it's practically a ten-minute walk from here, the flat is three blocks and a street away; I won't be so far from where you are._

When the time comes and a car honks to signal his best friend's arrival, Arthur and Alfred each grab their share of the boxes as the Canadian packs his things. They are hesitant to send him off, but Mathew ushers them back inside and tries to convince them otherwise – peppers kisses to their cheeks, gives his brother another hug _adieu_, promises to keep in touch by the time he's finished loading the last of his luggage onto the car.

He shoots Alfred a glance for the final time, reminds his brother that this is for the better and that he'll miss him too, tells him not to worry and, once again, to _stop crying_, _Alfred – _he'll be fine.

Arthur bids him goodbye, and it's warm and tender and makes blonde littler boy beam with delight. Matthew gushes and then draws near, remembers his time with the English boy and their affairs that didn't last, reminds himself to let his troubles of today be the triumphs of his tomorrows, and decides that he'll be doing this to pay Arthur back a favor, at least this one time.

"Hey Arthur," he says, cupping his cheeks and whispering to him amidst the rattling of his heartbeat and the shared blush of their ears.

_Hush now; it's our secret, you see— _

"Listen."

-x-

Matthew tells Arthur that Alfred loves him too – knowing his brother – but Alfred is most likely too afraid to admit it so Arthur better make a move instead. It's been obvious since his first night over and Alfred had stayed behind to watch over _him_ when the boys had meant to watch the movies.

Arthur splutters when Matthew lets him go; he pulls a hand to his face and coughs awkwardly. For a moment, Matthew worries if he's choked on his spit. The Briton shrugs off his concern and turns to look away, before his vision careens back to the sight of curly hair and it doesn't take much else for Matthew to realize – no, to _know. _Green eyes crinkle after a while and Matthew knows the Briton well enough to be certain that this is all for show.

"You still owe me a whisky," he pouts. It's almost childish.

"Ah. Indeed, that I do," Matthew chuckles. "_Adnams' Triple Grain Number Two?"_

"No, you dolt." He flicks his forehead, and Matthew frowns. "A _Single Malt Number One. _I don't even know how you can stomach that other one. Honestly, your taste is abhorrent when it comes to liquor. But no worries, we can fix that, as I will teach you, and you will realize the errors of your ways. When you buy it, I'll even let you take a sip."

"My apologies, _sir," _the Canadian jests mockingly,_ "_I'll bring some over when I visit on Christmas."

"That's three weeks away, my patience wouldn't last for that long." Arthur grumbles, and Matthew knows that that's just Arthur-speak for _I'll miss you. _"You'll come sooner won't you?"

"Of course," Matthew beams; a salute and a surrender. _I'll miss you too, Arthur. _"I'll have your whiskeys ready then."

"You better," he nags.

"Trust me," Matthew answers. "I won't forget."

Arthur is looking at him now and he seems hesitant when really, it's not like that at all. Matthew stifles a laugh and looks at him, too. _Typical Arthur._ He's just holding back a smile.

"Stay safe," the Briton mutters and bids the boy goodbye.

"I will, Arthur," Matthew says back and he grins, cradles slim fingers in the palms of his hands. He looks at him last, a dip in his view; pressing his lips – _a quick peck_ – on Arthur's wrist. "Stay well."

(He knows it will work out for them in the end, and he tells him so, too. For Arthur's sake.

Knowing Alfred, it always does.)

-x-

The third time Matthew falls in love, it is with Arthur Kirkland – a boy a tad bit older than his age, with thick brows and golden hair and green eyes the colour of kelp.

The third time Matthew falls in love, it is his last.

* * *

I just want to say thank you so much to all of the lovely people who have reviewed and patiently followed this fic of mine for updates. I wouldn't have been able to find it in myself to finish this if not for your support. i hope you all have great days ahead! :)


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